Grief
by aokakesu-otaku
Summary: Part 1 -It was a regular number. He could handle it. But when he doesn't, what happens to Finch? Part 2 - Whoever did this, was going in the ground. Warning: Major Character deaths
1. Chapter 1 Finch

**Finch**

It was just a regular number. A tricky one, numbers involving drug cartels with guns always were, but Reese could handle it. He'd handled plenty of people like them without any problems. I had zero doubt that he would wrap up the number and return to the Library. We had our connection on, so I could hear everything, even if there were no security cameras for me to use. It was going well, I heard the tell-tale signs of Reese and his habit of shooting people in the knees.

Then I heard the shots stop. I didn't question it, thinking he was done. A child cried. And suddenly things didn't seem as okay as they looked. Reese doesn t have any weakness, he wasn't allowed to in the CIA. But after the judge's case, with his son's kidnapping, I knew that hit a nerve with Reese.

"Mister Reese? Everything alright?"

My voice held a tint of worry; he wasn't talking, and neither was anyone else near his mic. I waited nervously for his low whisper voice to reassure me that he had everything taken care of. Instead, I got a huge sound and then static. I became increasingly worried.

After five minutes and no response or contact, I decided to find him. A storm had started, rain was not far off. Even so, when I looked up the building from the GPS, what was a little red dot had turned into a giant red mass of flames. The building the number had run to, the place I had sent Reese alone, was blocked by the blazing flames.

Time after that got blurry. My memory seemed to have frozen, and my body acted on it s own. The next thing I knew, I was standing outside the burning building, looking for Reese. My calls were frantic, and I was worried about the amount of time I had before the police noticed the destruction and arrived. The wind was starting to pick up, and I could feel the occasional drop of water, so it would rain very soon.

Then, out of the smog and blinding heat, a tall figure appeared. They limped and made horrible coughing sounds. It wasn't until they got closer that I saw it was in fact Reese. My relief swelled up, he was standing. His body wasn't a charred crisp in the building, he was still alive.

Just as I was about to reach him, call out to him, he swayed and then collapsed onto his chest. My steps became even more hurried, and once I reached him I turned him over so he could see me. "Reese! Reese can you hear me?" I knelt down and shook his shoulders. He coughed violently, and opened his eyes slightly. They seemed out of focus, and a look of confusion passed across his features.

"Finch? Is that you?"

My blood racing, I gave him a hollow smirk in confirmation. He gave me an earnest smile in return.

"You... you came for me... Finch, you came to get me.."

I was stunned at him, did he think I would just leave him in that building? Of course I came to get him, we had lost contact in what appeared to be a dangerous situation. My first instinct was to lightly chide him for his foolishness, but something in his voice... it was much quieter than normal.

"Reese, are you hurt too bad anywhere?"

The look responding to my question put a lump in my throat. His breathing was ragged, and now that I took the time to look, his clothes were horribly burnt, and his left arm was bleeding heavily. Glancing down at his chest, I noticed the tears in fabric and raging red marks that marred his otherwise tone torso. Shrapnel.

His ragged breath turned into a violent cough again, this time blood pooling behind his teeth and sliding down his jaw. The sight sent a cold chill down my spine that wasn't due to the cold weather. My grip on him tightened slightly, though whether it was to comfort him or myself I don't know.

"John! You re going to be okay, you re going to be fine John." I ignored the crack in my voice, and the starting rain. It wasn't raining hard enough though. Not to hide it. He gave me the softest of smiles, and actually let out a sound that might have meant to be a laugh.

"I thought... you said, you wouldn t lie to me, Finch. And..." He slowly lifted up his right arm, and a gentle but calloused hand touched my now wet cheek. "You said my name." I felt the rain increase in power, but somehow I couldn't care if I got soaked. Couldn't care if my joints would ache more than normal due to being drenched.

"I'm not lying John. I can't to you. We have a job to do John, so you're going to be okay." Even as I said these words, a sinking feeling in my stomach caused my voice to falter. I wanted to believe what I said, because I didn't...

"You'll... find someone. You found me. Someone... can do my job... just as-good." He voice was wavering, his breaths pausing every few moments, the blood pooling behind his lip made his battered face pale in comparison. Maybe a few months ago, I might have believed him. Might have been able to find someone with the same qualifications, the same will to protect.

But not now. No one was like John Reese. The more I worked with him, the more dangerous situations we went through, the more this thought solidified. No one was more qualified than John. No one could replace him, ability wise, and... emotionally as well.

I moved one of my hands to grip the one still on my cheek, my face betraying my expression. His ghost blue gaze softened more than ever before. I'd never seen such... adoration and complete trust on anyone else before.

"Harold. Thank you... for saving me." That one sentence tore me apart. Surprisingly, it wasn't the breath that escaped his mouth for the last time, it wasn't his gentle and experienced hand losing tension, it wasn't his ghost blue eyes closing never to open again that undid me. It was that one sentence that had taken the last of his life.

I continued to stare at his face, muttering "John... _John_...?" kneeling beside him in the now pouring rain. By the time the police sirens registered in my brain, I didn't even have the strength to get up. The building blaze wasn't completely out yet, but the heavy rain had stopped the fire from spreading too far. It provided a very faint orange glow in the darkening evening.

I knew before any words were spoken which officer approached me first. I may not have had the skills John had, but I could tell the difference between a woman's shoe and a man's at the least. I made no effort to face her.

"Detective Carter." My voice was hollow, emotionless. I could hear her quick intake of breath as she saw who exactly was before me. I heard her put away her gun and the clink of metal as she took out handcuffs. I almost laughed.

"Don't bother, Detective. There is no point in those." Now I found the energy to move, and shifted so I could look at her above my glasses. "I... am willing to turn myself in. If you do me something."

She hesitated for so long, I thought she wasn't even going to hear me out. But I suppose even detectives with strong morals get curious. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised, Mr. Burdett. What are you asking for that you'll turn yourself in? And how are you connected to Mister Suit?"

"John."

"Pardon?"

"His name. His name is-was. John." Shifting to past tense hurt more than anything. I had to swallow thickly to keep my composure in front of the detective that had dedicated most of her time in hunting us. She went silent after that. There was a long and heavy pause between us, with only the pounding rain as sound. Other officers bustled about, checking the building, finding the bodies of those inside.

I'm not sure how, but I ended up in a room at the precinct. Detective Carter and Fusco were both there, ready to start asking questions. I was on auto pilot, looking at this like an unconcerned third party. Ironic.  
>It was Detective Fusco who asked the first question. I caught a confused glint in his eye, but he hid it well. He wasn't there at the building, he had been on a different case, and was just brought in to question me. He was most likely shocked at seeing his "friend of a friend" in for questioning.<p>

"So, what is it you re asking for?"

"A favor."

Detective Carter jumped in here, taking hold of the conversation. "What kind of favor?"

I paused and took a slow breath. I pushed all emotion, all things that were irrelevant right now down into a deep part of me so I could answer as composed as possible. I think I only half succeeded. "A proper burial. Because of... what we did as a job, it was essential that we didn t "exist" in the normal sense of the word."

"And what exactly was it you did, as a job?" Detective Carter had that determined look on her face, wanting to get her questions answered first. I wasn't about to let that happen. So I settled for something safe to answer with before continuing.

"Save people. I want you to make sure that John Reese gets a proper burial and grave. That is all I ask." I managed to hide how much I was pleading more than asking from my face, but by the look Carter gave me, I assume I failed in hiding anything from showing in my eyes.

"Will you answer my questions if I make sure that happens?"

I glanced from her to Fusco, succeeding in not showing recognition. I let out a soft exhale and made my choice. "I will answer the questions I feel you need to know." But I wouldn't tell her about the machine. I wouldn't reveal the things that she didn't need to know. But I would tell her enough to keep her from stopping me with going through with my barely laid out plan.

Bail was something I could achieve easily. They had no evidence I was involved in any of the cases other than the robbery on the evidence locker. It irritated Detective Carter, but she couldn't do anything about it. After that, I went back to the library. It felt much larger and more empty than before. Now, like it, I was in a state of limbo.

I had a duty. To the numbers. I would carry on with my work. With saving the irrelevants. But not yet. Not only because I could no longer act... but because I couldn t find the will to try.

Carter full filled our deal a week later. It was small, which was inevitable, but it was nice. I noticed Fusco, as well as Zoey Morgan showed up. How Miss Morgan even found out about it I remain clueless. I suppose like she told John, she had her people. I nodded to both of them, and while Miss Morgan had never met me face to face, she was smart enough to figure out I was John's "imaginary friend".

My attention then turned to the simply yet beautifully crafted coffin. On another occasion I might have been able to appreciate the skill involved in making it. At the moment however, it was just a box. Containing the man who had broken through my barriers and reached my heart. The man I had sent to his death. For the past week it wouldn't leave my mind. If I had done more research, if I had planned it just a step more, he may not have been caught in that situation, and thus may not have died.

I looked at the situation a hundred different ways, and it all lead down to my error. My error that killed John. I owed a lot of things to him. Things I never got to repay. Things I never said. One of the things in that category that was foremost in my mind was "thank you". Thank you for accepting my job offer. Thank you for helping me repent for my sin. Thank you for saving my life.

Because I didn't save John Reese's life. He saved mine in more ways than one. I owed it to him to keep living it. I owed it to him, to make sure that my next employee, because I'd never have another partner, would not follow the same path I had foolishly lead John down.

I owed him more than I could ever possibly dream of repaying.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Notes<strong>: The idea just wouldn't leave me alone. I really don't like thinking of character deaths, but I often think of ways in which they would die, how dramatic it would be, how the others would react... I hope you enjoy (as much as you can) and review. There will be two parts total, each a stand alone, and an epilogue to part 1.


	2. Chapter 2 Reese

**Reese**

We were just walking around in New York. Just part of the crowd of people who didn't know we existed. I'd just wrapped up a number and was feeling a little sore, but I needed to walk off the adrenaline energy that I always get with a number. It seemed like Finch also had some energy he needed to burn. Or maybe he was finally taking my advice about exercise.

Eventually the chill in the air got to be too much, and we both agreed to take the car back to the library. We started heading to where Finch had parked the car, and my guard was down. I was just enjoying the walk with Finch, the nice companionable silence between us making me smile. A few people going in the opposite direction walked past us, but I didn't even look back at them as we reached the black car.

As Finch made his way towards the front seat, I intercepted him. He gave me a questioning look as I took the keys from his hands with a smirk. "I'll drive, Harold." He raised brow and gave a small frown but otherwise didn't protest.

"Suit yourself, Mister Reese," his voice was dry and in that tone that meant he wasn't really mad, but wanted to sound affronted. He then began to make his way around the car. I should have noticed. I should have _sensed..._ but I didn't.

The next thing I heard was the ringing after the shock wave. I was thrown back, landing painfully on my left shoulder and elbow. The ringing in my ears wouldn't stop, and it muted everything else around me. When I could finally put together what I was seeing, the sight of a burning car was what greeted me. I had to blink a few times before I could process getting up, and even though I couldn't hear my own voice, I knew I was calling out to Finch.

My stumbling steps found their way to where he had been tossed, and I fell more than knelt down to him. His suit and coat were smoldering slightly, but not enough to catch fire. The ringing was dying down a bit, and I could hear the echo of my voice and the crackle of the burning car as I tried to shake Finch.

"Harold! Harold!"

Belatedly, I noticed the blood on the pavement where his head had been, I gingerly touched the back of his skull only to pull away as I felt the blood. By now the ringing had all but stopped, and now the sounds of the fire engulfed my sense of sound. His glasses had been knocked off him, and the only thing I could think to do was slap him gently to try and get him awake.

"Finch.. Finch! Harold, wake up! We've got to get out of here!" My voice held a panic in it that I hadn't felt in a long, long time. He wouldn't respond, and I glanced around with my eyes darting everywhere. I spotted a car not far off, and made the hard decision to leave Finch's side and break into it. I left the door open and rushed back to the reclusive billionaire's side.

I gently picked him up, cradling his awkward weight in what was most commonly referred to as "bridal style" and carried him to the car. Once he was safe in the back seat, I took the time to scan _everything_ around me. There weren't many pedestrians this part of town, but I did spy that a man in a black coat had been heading our way.

Instincts were in full control, I just bolted at him. I had done many a super-human things throughout my career, though I surprised even myself with how fast I closed the distance between us. The man had only managed to take four steps before I tackled him to the ground, my forearm nearly crushing his throat. A sense of de ja vu flashed through me of another time where I'd been in this position, but this was different. I had been hesitant about killing _that_ man, I wasn't on this one.

My voice was gravelly from everything that had just happened, but from the look the guy under me gave me, I knew that my face still held that threatening demeanor. "Did you do this?" He gasped for air, but I only pressed my arm into his esophagus harder and repeated my question through clenched teeth. He gave a small nod and I let him have a bit of air.

I clenched the top of his coat and jerked him up so I could growl straight into his face. "_Who do you work for?_" The man weakly whimpered but kept silent, which frankly pissed me off. I abruptly let go, letting his head hit the hard ground before grabbing him again. I narrowed my eyes dangerously, and he quickly fumbled inside his coat.

I snatched his wrist in a vice grip, stilling his movement. I pulled his arm away and kept eye contact as I searched his coat. He had a small revolver in one inside pocket, but also a cell phone. I pulled both out, tossing the gun and briefly putting my attention on the phone's contacts. There were only a few, a pizza place, an unknown number, and someone named "CE" .

I brought my gaze back to the man and indicated the phone, "Your boss in here?" A flash of fear swept through his brown eyes, but then he seemed to gather some courage. He stuck his chin out at me, and his voice held false confidence.

"Boss'll tear you apart. You can't touch 'em."

I slowly tilted my head to the right, giving him an almost pitying look. I then frowned and slammed his head back down on the pavement, he was dazed and I knocked him out with a hard punch to his face. I left him there as I rushed back to the car, pocketing the phone. Finch was still unconscious in the back seat, so I hot wired the car and drove us to the library as fast as I could.

This time when I tried to rouse Finch, he responded. The relief I felt was tremendous, and I couldn't help the small smile I gave him as I saw his eyes flutter. I was half way in the back of the car, but I didn't want to move him out just yet. "Hey there Harold... just hang on ok?" my voice was soft, perfectly hiding the deep concern I had.

His eyes slowly made their way to look at me, though he probably couldn't see without his glasses. This thought was confirmed when he made a face that showed nonrecognition. I moved closer so he could make out more than just a blob, and now I could feel the slow and shallow breaths he was taking.

"...John?" his voice was harsh and slightly slurred, the signs weren't looking good. I shushed him and got my arm around him to lift him up.

"It's gonna be ok, Harold. We're at the library." He seemed to fade out for a second and I noticed that the seat was bloody. He hadn't stopped bleeding, the head injury must have been worse than I thought. I swallowed thickly and tried to move him, but his hiss of pain stopped me.

His blurry gaze locked on mine and the look he gave me was that of resignation. I knew what he was going to say before he even opened his mouth to try, and I wasn't going to have it. And even though I wanted nothing more than to just make him not say the words I feared, to just take him inside and bandage him up, my limbs were frozen in place.

"Sorry... John. I told you... we'd wind up... dead." I had started to shake my head while he was talking, my expression a mix of an angry frown and a sorrowful pout. This couldn't happen like this._ I_ was the expendable one. He was vital, _irreplaceable_, there could be another John Reese, but there would never be another Harold Finch.

"Don't talk, Harold. I'm gonna save you. It's my job remember?" I forced myself to believe my words, to sound twice as confident as I felt. A shaky hand fumbled to grab one of mine and it seemed to be the only thing anchoring him. His breaths had become a bit more ragged, and I could tell he struggled to form words.

"Thank you... for working... with an... eccentric man.. like myself," he forced a genuine smile and I felt a lump form in my throat. His breath hitched and with one last burst of energy he whispered to me again, "_Thank you._"

The arm I had around him tightened as I felt him sink into it. I struggled with my emotions as I watched him die in my arms. A look of pure agony made residence on my face as I stayed there, half in the car holding the one man who had saved me and given me an honest purpose. The one person who _meant_ something to me in so long.

I somehow managed to get him into the library and clear a desk to lay him on. I didn't care about all the things that clattered to the floor, or the papers that were scattered. All I could focus on was Finch laying on the table. Running on auto, I grabbed one of my spare shirts I kept here and wet it using the sink in the bathroom. I slowly cleaned up his face, placing his spare glasses gently on his nose.

He looked more like the man I knew now. His suit was ruined, so I covered him with the blanket I had convinced him to keep here since I knew he fell asleep here more than anywhere else. With another long look, I pulled myself away and went to the computer. I pulled out the cellphone I'd taken from the bomber, and dialed the unknown number.

I wasn't nearly as good with the computer as Finch was, but I at least knew how to track someone's GPS cell signal. The first number, the unknown, lead to a building I recognized as a good payday spot. I made a note to go there next. As I tried the number labeled "CE", the signal rung for two beats, then was cut off.

Whoever the boss was, they were smart. My mental list of suspects went down considerably. Putting the address for the payoff location into my phone, I got up and began gathering all that I'd need. I'd make sure the bastard who did this was in the ground.

I made my way over to the payoff location with a gun at my hip and adrenaline running in my veins. They weren't too happy to see me there, but a few bullets in a couple of their buddies made them _real_ talkative. It was almost amusing how fast they turned on their boss. Unfortunately, they knew next to nothing useful. I did however manage to get a cell number of their boss's number two guy, who was not nearly as smart as their boss.

This number was traceable. It seemed to be a personal phone, not one of the burn ones meant for "on-the-job". Realizing I wouldn't able to do this myself, I sent Fusco a lengthy text. Before I gave him time to read it, I dialed the number and pressed the smart phone to my ear.

"Lionel. This will be the last favor I call." I began without preamble. Fusco's voice was mixed with doubt and shock.

"What are you talking about? I'm free after this?"

"Yes Lionel. You won't be hearing from me again. I gave you a text with an address. Go to it and follow the instructions. To the letter Lionel." My tone was dead serious, and he paused for a long moment before he replied, the doubt nearly gone from his voice.

"What? So ... that's it? I just go to this address, and that's it?" he seemed almost relieved that that was all I was asking, though I'm sure he was thinking there was something more to it, some hidden hook. On another day I might have grinned at his suspicion. It would have meant he was learning. But my mind had no room for feeling proud at teaching him. I had a mission.

"Do exactly as it says in the envelope I will leave for you, and you'll never see or hear from me again." I hung up before he could ask any more questions. I tossed the phone aside, having no further use for it at the moment. I grabbed a sheet of paper and pen and began to write. I had to pause a few times, my gaze and thoughts travelling to the room where I knew Finch still was. When I'd finally finished the letter, it was well past 10 in the morning. This had all started 4 in the afternoon the previous day.

With the call and letter to Lionel over with, I only had one thing left. I hadn't slept in over 48 hours, but my mind didn't feel tired. On the contrary, I was filled with barely pent up energy in the form of rage. Rage that was infused with the power brought by loss.

_His_ keys, the ones to one of the many spare cars, were weighing in my hand like a human heart. And I'm regretful to say I've had the experience of that particular feeling. Speed limit was a distant memory as I drove to the location where the idiot's cell was located. I had a sick sense of both satisfaction and dread as it lead me to Brighton Beach. As I neared the point where the cellphone, and thus the last of the group of people responsible, was located, I didn't even let up on the gas.

What better way to say "Hello" than to drive right through the door? I took out three guys with that entrance, so there really was no down side. Okay, the car got totaled. But that hardly mattered at the time. I hadn't taken more than a step out of the smoking black vehicle before I started to open fire. I didn't spare them even a second glance once they went down. No knee shots, all straight to the vital zones, therefore they wouldn t be getting up anyway.

I had gone through two ammunition refills and three different guns by the time I saw him. My face was set in cold blooded stone, and I stopped my assault to stare at his deceptively disarming face. One that currently held mock confusion written all over it.

"I knew it was you. Elias."

"John! What are you doing here?" he dared to sound surprised at my being there.

"I thought it was obvious. Putting my skills to _very_ good use." I pointed my gun at him and took slow menacing steps towards him.

"I thought you didn't kill anyone John." He looked almost... scolding at me.

"I make an exception for murderers." I hissed in response.

"Murder? What are you talking about John? You honestly cared about the Russians?" he brought up the murders he d had committed back when I first met him. Back when I thought he was no one but an innocent high school history teacher by the name of Charlie Burton. Back when he reminded me of Finch. That thought was nearly a blow and I subtly winced.

"No, Elias. I'm talking about _Finch_."

"Who? Wait, you mean your friend you called when you saved me that day?" he sounded nearly mocking, but he kept his bespectacled face passive if almost innocent looking. It didn't fool me. I would shoot him if he made the wrong move, and he seemed to sense that he'd touched a nerve.

_"Yes Elias. Finch. The man your men killed."_

"What? I didn't know that was the man who was your friend! I told you I'd stay out of your way John, I didn't mean to cross that line. Especially not after Carter." His denial of everything nearly made me pull the trigger. Nearly had me shoot him right between the eyes and kill him that second. But that would be too easy, too _fast_.

"Doesn't matter Elias. Your men are dead. You and I are the only ones left. You know you can't escape me, Elias." My voice and mind suddenly felt a calming clarity, and it reflected in my face. I looked almost.. disinterested in the whole thing. I could tell that's what unnerved him the most.

"... What are you going to do John?" he asked quietly, by now only a scant six feet between us. I gave him a predatory grin, my finger slipping from the trigger.

"You crossed the line Elias. **So I'm destroying it.**"

* * *

><p><strong>AC: <strong>Just to make it clear, part 1 of Grief and part 2 are stand alone's. They don't connect. This part took me a lot longer to write than the other part, I had to stop for a while just to continue writing it. At one point, I just skipped around and wrote the parts that weren't as heart-wrenching. Finch's death scene was actually the _last_ thing I wrote, and I went through two different drafts of it before settling on this one. Please enjoy and review~


	3. Chapter 3 Lionel

Lionel Fusco was at the location that his friend had texted him over two hours before. He was more confused than ever when it lead him to a closed library he didn't even know existed. In fact, it looked like no one knew it existed. So of course "Mr. Suit" knew. Lionel couldn't hold back a roll of the eyes at that thought. Nothing made sense with his "friend".

He ascended the giant staircase like instructed in the text, and was surprised to find that the run down place didn't look so run down any more. "What the hell?" was the most eloquently worded thing his mind could string together. A huge system of monitors connected to various computers, a few desks stacked with paper, and a huge cork board that was covered in numbers and articles and pictures and string connecting a number to at least one other thing. The whole place looked like a snap shot of some sort of movie.

Then he remembered why he'd been sent there. "Right, the letter." But finding one slip of paper among this huge gob of it... was easier said than done. He'd been looking for at least half an hour when he decided to stop for a rest. There was only one chair in the whole room, a wheeled swivel chair that was just in front of one of the lowest computer monitors. He sat down in the only mildly comfortable chair with a huge sigh and leaned back. When he casually turned to the screen, he saw an envelope sitting right in front of it, with the name "Lionel" written on it. If he had started looking here, there would have been no way he would've missed it.

"Oh you've got to be kidding me!" He grumbled roughly, putting his reading glasses on and snatching the envelope with much more aggression than was strictly necessary. He nearly tore it in half to get at the folded letter in side it, but once he started to read the entire reason he was there at all, he sobered up quick. A frown swiftly made residence on his face, and only grew as he read on.

_'Lionel,_

_You're a good cop. Let me tell you at least that much. You were like a lost puppy when I found you, but with some slight help, you've become a good guard dog. I don't have many people I trust, Lionel. And I can't exactly say I trust you with my life, considering all the times you've tried to kill me. But you can at least be trusted enough to do something that is right._

_Like I told you on the phone, this will be the last you hear from me. And what I m about to ask you to do is more of a favor than an order. I won't be blackmailing you into doing it. I just hope you will anyway._

_My... well I guess you called him "friend of a friend", but he wasn't in just one category. He was my employer, my partner, my coworker, my benefactor, and my friend. Due to a mistake I made, he wound up caught in an explosion. Sadly it wasn't his first time seeing one that close._

_Because of who I am, Lionel, I can't do something he deserves more than anyone else in the world. It was his sense of justice and desire to help those in danger and need that saved me. It was his will and persistence that I got the chance to save innocent people, and put the bad ones out of commission._

_He mattered more to me than anything. And even though he gave me the job so that I could be there in time... I wasn't for him. Back to what I need of you. Bury him. Properly. I know next to nothing about his past, though I'm pretty sure he didn't have any next-of-kin or family left behind. Strictly speaking Lionel, we didn't exist._

_But to me... he existed. There may not be anyone who will visit his grave, but I at least want him to have one. A nice one. There are a few credit cards on the desk, use them to pay for it. Since there needs to be something on the tombstone, at least put his name. It might not be his real one, but it was the only one I knew. Harold Finch._

_P.S. Thank you._

_John Reese'_

Lionel just looked at the letter for a long time. He was glad he was sitting down, because of all the things he expected to be his "last favor" for them, burying Mr. Friend-of-a-friend was not one of them. Speaking of, that was a good question. Where was the body? He hadn't smelt the very obvious signs of death, but that didn't mean much.

He reread the letter two more times, but nothing in it said where the body was. Tempted to give a huff of annoyance but too shocked to do so, he got up and started poking around the other rooms on the floor. We he finally found Finch, he had to stop for a moment. He didn't _look_ dead... the bespectacled man was laying flat on a table that had been cleared hastily. A blanket covered most of him, and when Lionel dared to lift it, he saw that most of the man's clothes were charred.

Lionel let his gaze become sorrowful, realizing that John Reese must have spent meticulous care that his best friend's body was presentable but couldn't bring himself to change the man's clothes. With a heavy sigh, Lionel took out his cell phone and began dialing. One good thing came out of having once been a dirty cop, you knew contacts who knew how to keep shut in various fields of work. He never thought he'd need the morgue's though.

Lionel glanced at the newspaper tossed carelessly onto his desk. His lips quirked in a rueful frown, the bold words glaring at him. "**BUILDING EXPLOSION IN BRIGHTON BEACH. MANY FOUND DEAD, INCLUDING SUSPECT KNOWN AS CARL ELIAS. UNKNOWN CAUSE."** The homicide detective couldn't help but mutter, "Of course the criminal gets the headlines. The _real_ loss shoved under the rug."

Almost shocked at his own words, he sighed and slide the paper into the trash bin to the side of his desk. His partner watched him with hawk like eyes. She waited a moment before speaking up. "Got a problem with today's paper, Fusco?" She put the file she had been looking at down to bring her full attention to the detective across from her.

Lionel huffed a bit and returned her hard gaze, "Nah. Just wonderin' who popped Elias. You know, who we have to thank for getting that psychopathic scum off the streets." Carter looked almost shell-shocked for a moment at Fusco's sharp response, but she merely glanced back down at her file and then fixed her focus on him.

"I think it was my guy in a suit. Wouldn't be surprised if he added arson to his list of broken laws and felonies. He seems to vary in what he does." She then tapped the file with a finger, and Lionel realized that he recognized the case. _He_ had asked the detective to dig some info on the girl, though that was a week back. Carter was still a step behind him, even now.

Lionel was tempted to inform her that her "Guy in a suit" wouldn't be bothering anybody anymore, but then he'd have to explain how he knew that. And he needed this job. So instead he got up and grabbed his coat. Carter looked at him questioningly as he grabbed his phone and wallet. "Going somewhere?"

He hesitated for just a second. "Yeah. Visiting a grave. What, you wanna come along?" The look he gave her was daring her to openly tell him she didn't trust him. That she was suspicious of where he was going. He didn't really care anymore seeing as he wouldn't have to do any more favors, there was nothing left to be suspicious _of_.

She let out a deep breath and then it seems conceded. "No... I wouldn't want to intrude. See you later Fusco." Lionel nodded and mutter a good bye and walked out of the station. The cab drive to the cemetery was quiet, left him with his thoughts. Which were currently mixed. He wasn't sure if he was relieved that he wouldn't have to risk his life and job or if he was sad that there wasn't a silent guardian on the streets. He was still in a slightly zombie mind set as he made his way to the fresh grave.

He stopped just in front of it, gazing at the black marble with the gold engraving. There was no date, no fancy words left by a loved one. No flowers had been laid there, not even a candle. The grave marker itself was simple, a black rectangle about four inches thick, nothing marking any sort of religion or affiliation. The only thing marring the smooth ebony surface was the engraving, the grooves that made up just a few words.

_Harold Finch _

_The man who saw everything _

_and did what he could_

Lionel smirked to himself for thinking of it. He figured it fit rather nicely to the man who was always watching, always listening, but who he knew nothing about. He gently touched the top of the stone, giving the grave a thoughtful look. "Rest well, friend of a friend. Where ever the heck you are, at least you're not alone."

He didn't linger any longer and began walking back out of the silent cemetery. A light breeze blew past him and he glanced back on a whim. He had to blink, because he _swore_ that he could see faint outlines of two men. One taller than the other. The taller one smirked at him as he gave the detective a little wave before putting his arm around the shorter. The shorter one of the two gave a stiff nod. Lionel blinked again. There was nothing there.

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><p><strong>AC:<strong> Ambiguous ending is ambiguous. I leave it to you to interpret it how you most enjoy it. I ended up using Lionel more than I first thought, so I figured he should get his own chapter.


	4. Chapter 4 Finch Epilogue

Three weeks. It had been three weeks since he had been buried. A full month since he died. It had been three restless weeks of searching for a new employee without having the reason _why_ I was searching in my mind.

The numbers only made things worse. When I had enough information, I'd send an anonymous tip to either Carter or Fusco and be forced to leave it to them. I could do nothing on my own. I hadn't spoken to either detective since I'd been released, and while I suppose neither had a reason to try and arrest me I still didn't want to risk it.

No Reese meant no action in saving the numbers. Without him there was nothing for them to arrest me over. It was a bitter-sweet situation that left me moving between gratitude and frustration.

"Hey, boss. Got a new number today?"

Of course this changed with a new employee.

"As I've said, they don't stop coming, Miss Wallace."

I looked over to the woman I had chosen to employ. Her file was not a clean one; having been trained in multiple arts (including assassination and spy-work) from her family at a young age. Put frankly, she was a free-work killer who at least had a few standards.

She never took a hit she didn't know the reason behind, and she stayed away from killing kids. Clients tolerated these rules because her results were astounding, and not once had anyone connected her clients to the hits. Even the government had employed her at one point, though there were no physical records kept of the event.

Miss Wallace was not a likable woman. Perhaps she was to regular people, people she knew how to manipulate, but I have never been accused of being like regular people. I treated and regarded her solely as an employee, and she treated me like I was to her: her boss, payday, some stranger needing her skills.

"Then I guess it's time I got to work. What do I need to do, boss?" She stood there, waiting for the information I'd found on the number, dressed in a woman's pinstripe suit. Things were different with the numbers now. More of the numbers that came in were the criminals, less were victims. I'm not sure if that was good or not, since I was well aware of Miss Wallace's body count. Of anything, I was sure she had no qualms with killing those she faced.  
>"Mister Dale Hault, a hotel manager..."<p>

_~skip time~_

"Hey boss... Who's John?" At Miss Wallace's question over the phone I froze in my chair, hand mid type. I swallowed thickly before replying coldly.

"I fail to see the relevance of that question, Miss Wallace. Who are you talking about?" I hadn't told her _anything_ about John, or all the people he had interacted with: Miss Morgan, Detective Fusco, or even Elias. She discovered Carter on her own because the detective was given her case, even though they had no evidence what-so-ever on the woman. Apparently, since Carter had been in charge of John's cases, after he was taken out, it gave the detective some points in the department.

"When I came in one morning, I don't think you'd heard me yet, I heard you talking. At first I thought it was to me, but then you said John." Her voice came over as mildly interested but not intruding. It didn't fool me. Though this was actually the first time she asked for any type of personal information since I'd hired her two weeks prior.

_John was the closest thing to a friend I'd had in a long time. John was a broken and lost man who saved my life in many ways. John was my partner. John was the first to connect with my heart in years. John was a good man. John was the man I killed._

I could have said any one of those things. I could have said them all. I said none of them. "John... John was my previous employee."

There was a pause at her end before, "_Was_?"

"Yes, was. Have you found the number's house?" I didn't want to discuss it further and made that clear in my tone. She seemed to have gotten the message.

"Yeah, breaking into their place now. I'll call you when I learn more." She hung up and I was left alone with my thoughts. Which were currently raging about in my head, all the things I had locked away since his death rising to the surface.

I had to push the chair away from the desk and take off my glasses. I rubbed my hands on my face, taking a shuddering breath.

I hadn't let myself breakdown since that night I held his cold body in my arms. I felt that if I did break down, I would never be able to get up again, the pain would be too great. Now, after so much time had passed, I couldn't hold it back.

I let out a strangled sob, giving myself ten minutes. In ten minutes Miss Wallace would undoubtedly call to check in. I gave myself eight to letting out everything, two for regaining my composure for the call.

While tears slid down my face, blocked in their path only by my hands, thoughts flew into my head.

_No more smug looks. No more bringing in Sencha tea. No more exercise advice, no more "I'm very uncomfortable having you here". No more dry humor. No more teasing "Finch"'s, no more concerned "Harold?"'s, no more understanding looks. No more awkward reassurance, no more soft whispers. No more honest "thank you"'s. No more **John**._

With all this screaming in my head turning into sobs, I didn't know if I was still letting it out or if it was only in my head. Either way, I was too distracted to keep to my set time. The tears hadn't stopped before the phone call from Miss Wallace came.

I let it ring twice before I let myself even consider trying to sound fine while answering. Even when I did, I think she could tell what I had just been doing.

"Got a good idea about the number. I'm going to check it out now. Call me if you find something odd in his file."

I took a slow breath and told her I would. She hung up after that with a short "talk to ya later, boss" and I'd never been more relieved that she was not one to pry. I swallowed down the rest of my raging emotions, bringing in the reins into professional composure once more. Work went on.

But my heart would not.

This grief would not go away, but I would keep a strong hold on it, and let it out only when I could afford the time. I wondered idly if it would always be like this as I returned to my monitors and started my research.

* * *

><p><strong>AC<strong>: This is at the very end because it includes my OC Miss Wallace, and I really wasn't even sure if I should have posted it. But I wanted Finch-y angst, and well I just had to get it out there. If you want to ignore it from the rest of the "Grief" chapters, go ahead, this is just here as a little treat.


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